


The Other Big One

by yeahitshowed



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 06:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17657978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahitshowed/pseuds/yeahitshowed
Summary: '“Wait,” Francie says. “Are you two—”“No,” Paris says way too loudly.Any trace of faux-sweetness out the window, Francie takes a slow, smug step forward, pulling the door shut. “But you wish you were?”'Amidst college acceptance letters and bi-centennial speeches, Paris has to deal with yet another curveball: Francie finding out about her confusing and absolutely top-secret feelings for Rory.





	The Other Big One

“I mean, I would never intentionally do anything behind your back, Paris,” Francie says, oozing what she must think passes for wide-eyed innocence. “And I promise, the next time Rory tries to get me to, I’m just gonna say ‘Talk to the hand,’ you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Paris says, remembering with a grim, Hobbesian satisfaction that her upcoming fencing class will grant her a school-sanctioned opportunity to fight Rory Gilmore. 

With more emotion than a snake should be able to muster, Francie coos, “Are you mad? Say you’re not mad. I just couldn’t live if I thought you were mad.” 

“No, I’m not mad,” Paris grumbles on her way to the door and, subsequently, school-sanctioned-Rory-Gilmore-fighting time. 

She’s got the door halfway open when Francie decides to say, “With the way you two have been getting along, I’d hate to think that I just broke up Chilton’s new ‘it’ couple.” 

It takes Paris about three seconds to realize Francie was merely tossing off one of her patently subpar quips. Unfortunately, Paris spends those three seconds with a look of blank shock on her face. 

“Wait,” Francie says. “Are you two—”

“ _No,_ ” Paris says way too loudly. 

Any trace of faux-sweetness out the window, Francie takes a slow, smug step forward, pulling the door shut. “But you wish you were?”

Paris’s various expensive tutors have spent hours perfecting her question-answering reaction times in preparation for the debate team’s precise time limits. Her molasses-like responses here would give her mother heart palpitations. 

Francie gives a downright evil chuckle. “Oh, Paris. Student council presidents really shouldn’t be this easy to blackmail. I do wish you’d Sappho’d it up a little sooner, though. I could’ve saved some film.”

Paris realizes she’s crumpled those stupid photos within an inch of their grainy little lives. “Look,” she says, hating the way her voice cracks the way it always does when she really really really needs it not to crack, “I know critical thinking isn’t exactly your strong suit, but whatever inane conclusion your peabrain just came to—”

“The lady doth protest too much,” Francie says. “Whoa, that was deep. Did I just make that up?”

“It’s from Hamlet, you dullard. We had a quiz on it yesterday.” 

“Whatever. Point is, you’ve gone all Ellen for Rory’s Anne Heche, and unless you want the whole school knowing about it, I’ve got some demands.” 

“Demands?” Paris repeats. “Man, you pull off one secret parking garage meeting and you think you’re a Bond villain.” 

“Fine,” Francie shrugs, reaching for the door. “I’ll go see if Madeleine and Louise are interested in some better gossip than what showtune Brad is butchering these days.” 

Paris instinctively backs against the doorframe, which is tantamount to admitting defeat, damn it. “What do you want,” she says through gritted teeth.

Francie beams. “First off, prom at Wadsworth Mansion, my way. No expenses spared. Let some other class buy a dumb telescope, our class gift is going to be cheap and easy.”

“Much like its proprietor,” Paris mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. Second, I’d appreciate if you were a little more receptive to my ideas during meetings. And by a little, I mean a lot.”

“So you want me to be a spineless figurehead in my own government?” 

“Yes, ‘spineless,’ that’s exactly the word I was looking for. Expect an uptick in Puff-friendly rulings.” 

“Fine,” Paris says. “Anything else?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Francie grins. “This is going to be the best senior year ever.”

“Sure.” Paris glumly turns to go.

“Paris.” Francie cocks her head. “You want to be, like, big and successful, right?”

“Big and successful is the plan, Francie. Why?”

“I don’t know. Ellen got her show cancelled. Might be something to think about.” 

———————————————————————————-

Despite her parents’ no-TV-on-weeknights rule (which is more of a no-TV-until-you-get-into-Harvard rule), Paris has actually seen a bit of _Ellen._ There have been reruns playing the precious few times Paris has been deemed sick enough to stay home from school, and, her history textbook open on her lap as a decoy, she’s inconspicuously tuned in to the wacky antics of Ellen Morgan.

It’s not terrible, for a sitcom. The live audience is insufferable, of course, and the plot twists could easily be predicted from the distance of the telescope Francie refuses to buy, but mindless entertainment has its charms. 

Once, stuck in bed with a stomach virus that her father loudly hoped would “help her slim down,” Paris turned on the TV to find a chunk of half-hour programming even she had heard of: “The Puppy Episode,” otherwise known as the reason this charmingly dumb show got the axe.

As with all things, Paris tried to approach the episode pragmatically. Maybe she could learn from Ms. DeGeneres’s mistakes in case she ever feels like adding ‘showrunner’ to her lengthy list of potential careers. As the two-part arc unfolded, Paris took copious notes in a spiral-bound notebook.

“It’s not like I’m looking for perfection, you know,” Ellen lamented to her therapist, inexplicably played by Oprah Winfrey. “I just want someone special, someone I click with.”

“And obviously you didn’t click with Richard,” Oprah said. “Has there ever been anyone you felt you clicked with?”

Ellen nodded, looking more scared than people on sitcoms usually do.

“And what was his name?” Oprah asked.

“Susan.”

Paris’s notes ended up pretty unreadable. She buried them in the bottom of her sock drawer, only occasionally rediscovering them when Nanny took a day off and she ran low on laundry. Still, for months afterward, there was a little Oprah Winfrey perched in the back of her mind, asking her some very difficult questions. 

———————————————————————————-

“Paris,” Rory calls, chasing her out of the classroom. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“Do you hear something, Louise?” Paris says, picking up the pace to her locker. 

“What?” Louise says oh-so-helpfully, bobbing her head to whatever boy band she’s got looping on her walkman this week. 

Paris waves her off, shoving three color-coded math binders into her backpack. “Well, I don’t hear anything,” she proclaims to her algebra homework. “Must have been the wind. The treacherous, backstabbing wind.” 

“We can talk about my dirty turncoat tendencies later. Why are you lobbying for shorter hemlines on school uniforms?” Rory demands. “That meeting was supposed to be for rebinding the library’s history section.” 

“Why should the books get a makeover before us?” Paris says, making a beeline for her next classroom. 

Rory blocks her. “Fashion over books? Who are you, and what have you done with Paris?”

“I’ve turned her into the proper voice of the people, that’s what I’ve done with Paris. It’s a politician’s responsibility to listen to the will of her constituents.” 

“Yeah, but hiking hemlines? Do you want creeps like Tristan to spend even more time trying to look up—”

“Why would I want that?” Paris can feel her complexion quickly going full tomato. “What are you implying?”

“Implying—?”

“Yes, implying, suggesting the truth of that which is expressly untrue. Pick up a dictionary, Gilmore.” 

“I’m not implying anything,” Rory says, throwing up her hands. “I just want fancy new clothes for our books. They work hard. They deserve it.” 

The bell rings. “Put it in the suggestion box,” Paris says, glancing at her class, most of which already has their homework out.

“We don’t have a suggestion box.” 

“Make one, then. You’re poor. Poor people love arts and crafts.” 

“I’m sorry I told Francie about Jamie,” Rory says, once again stepping in her way. Paris realizes she still hasn’t returned Jamie’s five separate voicemails. She assures herself all straight girls feel stomach-turning dread at the thought of contacting their boyfriends. “Really, really sorry. Can weplease go back to being the friendlier kind of frenemies?” 

This time, Paris doesn’t have a fencing mask to shield her from Rory’s stupid pretty sincere face. She’s a hair’s breadth from calling a truce when she spots Francie down the hall, staring her down and whispering to one of her Puff pals. 

“Portmanteaus are a wishy-washy man’s game,” Paris snaps. “We’re either friends or enemies, and you chose enemies when you decided to have yourself some after-school espionage. I’m late for class.” 

“You don’t have to make everything so hard,” Rory shouts after her. Paris tries not to consider the possibility that she might be right. 

———————————————————————————-

For at least the third time that year, Paris finds herself showing up to the Gilmore residence angry and unannounced. Her feet just seem to take her there, sometimes. Especially when she doesn’t have anywhere else to go. 

“I think the first thing to do is to acquaint ourselves with each others’ speeches so we can judge who hit what point best,” Paris says, plopping down on Rory’s bed with her heart beating at a totally normal rate. 

“If I may, I’m going to hit on an additional point right now,” Rory says, sitting down next to her, which, fine, that’s fine, why wouldn’t that be fine. “That point is as follows: why are you being so weird?”

“I didn’t know you found the editing process weird,” Paris says, pen poised over page two of her speech. “Although that does explain most of your tenure at _The_ _Franklin._ ”

“Easy there, sassy.” 

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“Yeah, usually,” Rory says, gently prying Paris’s speech out of her hands. “Lately, it feels more like you’re calling ‘em like Francie sees ‘em.”

“I told you, listening to the will of the people is a politician’s—”

“Yes, thank you, Andrew Jackson, but why Francie specifically? One minute you hate her, the next you’re pushing to ratify every half day and private Puff dining room she wants.”

“Do you want to consolidate the speeches or not?” Paris says sharply. 

“I want to talk to you,” Rory says, equal sharpness, additional warmth. 

“I broke up with Jamie,” spills out of Paris’s mouth. It isn’t true. Not yet. It will be if she ever returns the growing mountain of voicemails haunting her inbox.

Rory blinks. “Oh.”

“You seem surprised.” 

“I mean—”

“Not surprised? Nonplussed? Happy? Sad? Hungry? What?” Paris urges. 

“Paris—”

“We need one of those pain charts with the smiley faces they have at the doctor’s office.” 

“I’m a little surprised,” Rory concedes. “It seemed like you two had a good thing going.” 

“We did,” Paris says, struck with an exceedingly familiar stab of panic. “Oh, god, we did. Last month, he let me talk about MLA-versus-APA citation for an hour before pretending to get a call from his mother. And I’m throwing it all away. For what?” 

“Okay,” Rory says with that infuriating Rory calmness. “Let’s take a breath. I’m said I’m a _little_ surprised, emphasis on ‘little.’ It’s not like you wanted to marry the guy, right?”

Paris barks out a laugh. “As if I’d consider marriage before grad school.” 

“There you go,” Rory says. “He wasn’t the one. End of story.” 

“But what if there isn’t another one?” 

“Then you’ll come over to my house and we’ll talk about citation styles,” Rory says, wrapping an arm around Paris’s shoulders. “MLA for life, by the way.” 

“Are you out of your mind? If you’re looking for efficiency, or even some semblance of organization—”

“My point is, there will be plenty of ones,” Rory interrupts. “You just need to find the person you really click with.” 

“Right,” Paris says.

“Right,” Rory says.

“Right,” says the little Oprah Winfrey chilling in Paris’s cerebellum.

And then no one says anything for a while. 

———————————————————————————-

Considering that Paris has been having intermittent dreams about screaming down the whole school since pre-K, she really shouldn’t be surprised. Still, she had always assumed that her inevitable breakdown would happen somewhere mundane, like the cafeteria or next to Tristan’s locker.

Not, you know, on national television. 

“And the thing that’s really funny here is, who in the world deserves to go to Harvard more than me?” she says into the camera. “Have you seen how hard I’ve worked over these past four years?” 

In the audience, Paris catches Francie stifling a laugh behind her hand. 

“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Paris says. “Nobody at this school seems to notice anything about me unless it’s something I’d rather keep quiet. Edit the paper, run the SGA, no one says boo. But my parents’ divorce? My incestuous date to that dumb dance? You people took plenty of notice then, huh? I should’ve put that crap in my Harvard essay. Maybe that’s how I could’ve gotten in.” 

“Paris,” Rory says quietly. Paris looks at her and feels the rest of her sanity burn up under the auditorium’s lights. 

“But I didn’t get in,” she half-shrieks. “I’m not going to Harvard. _I’m_ not going to Harvard. I wasted the most important year of my life trying not to be gay for my best friend, and—” 

The crowd erupts in worried murmurs. Rory grabs Paris by the sleeve of her crumpled sweater and drags her offstage, Francie’s delighted laughter echoing after them.

The tears start blurring her vision the second Rory touches her. Paris lets herself be guided to some shabby stairwell behind the auditorium, collapsing on the first step. “Thanks for giving me the vaudeville hook off the stage,” she says in Rory’s general direction. “You can go now.” 

“Sorry, are you dismissing me?” Rory says incredulously. “I didn’t know I was one of the Geller family butlers.” 

“We don’t have _butlers._ God. If Headmaster Charleston would stop vetoing my idea for a seminar on anti-rich prejudice, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

“Do you want to have a different conversation instead? Maybe about some stuff you just said to the fine folks at C-SPAN?” 

Paris flinches. “There’s not much to say. I’m a lesbian Harvard reject and you don’t see me that way, but you’re flattered, really, and you’d love to stay friends. Don’t worry, I know how this goes.” 

Rory takes a very deep breath before saying, “I don’t think you do.”

“Wait,” Paris says. “Do you—”

“I don’t know,” Rory interrupts. “I’ve never thought about this before. But now I’m thinking about the amount of time I’ve spent talking about how much I hate you to anyone that would listen, and maybe…” She sighs, twisting her hands together in her lap. “I know that might not be what you want to hear, but…is ‘maybe’ okay for now?” 

“I wish Harvard had given me a ‘maybe,’” Paris grumbles. 

“There she is,” Rory says, scooting a bit closer on the step. “That’s the perspective I know and love.” 

———————————————————————————-

“Oh my god,” Paris breathes, hurtling into a Chilton bathroom for the first time in nearly fourteen years. “Oh my god.” 

“Was that Tristan out there?” Rory asks conversationally, holding the door for the adolescents fleeing Paris’s wrath. 

“Of course it was Tristan,” Paris snarls. “With that pouty mouth, those liquid eyes? Who else?” 

“Well, me, for one,” Rory shrugs. As the last of the terrified high schoolers exit, she closes the door, looking around the newly-renovated bathroom. “You called my eyes ‘liquid’ in your vows. That was during your foray into creative writing, remember?” 

“I don’t know why you’re in such a jokey mood,” Paris says, throwing her empty briefcase on the chaise lounge (and making a mental note to complain that her alumni donations were being used for a _bathroom chaise lounge)._ “Your wife just turned into a sniveling One Direction fan at the sight of her high school crush. Her _male_ high school crush.”

“Poor One Direction,” Rory says. “Do you think they’ll actually stay broken up? The world needs nonthreatening boy bands.” 

“Our marriage is a sham!” Paris declares, pacing the room in her increasingly-painful high heels. “I’m an L-U-H-S-R. A ‘lesbian until high school reunion.’ Compulsory heterosexuality still has me in its bleach-blonde vice.” 

“Luhsr,” Rory repeats, giggling. 

“Rory!” Paris yells, her voice reverberating against the tile. “Why are you so calm right now?” 

“Because I know you,” Rory says, grabbing Paris’s arms to get her to stop pacing. “I’ve been here through the advanced degrees, the academic awards, the private club, the Pilates, the dermabrasions, the subtle nips and tucks, and you’re still Paris Geller, the amazing, uncontainable girl who told all of C-SPAN that she liked me. The Tristan Dugrays of the world couldn’t slow you down then, and they can’t now.” 

“You tell anyone about the nips and tucks and you’re dead,” Paris warns. 

“I know, honey. I think that might’ve made it into your vows, too.” 

The door swings open, revealing the only Chilton grad that ever messed with Paris’s head more than Tristan.

“Oh!” Francie says, giving a glittering smile. “Hello!”

Without missing a beat, Rory pulls Paris into a passionate kiss, nearly making her damn high heels give out. It takes Francie three or four throat-clearings to get Rory to stop. 

“Oh, hi, Francie,” Rory says cheerily. “Didn’t see ya there.” 

“Uh huh,” Francie says, already halfway out the door. “Well, it’s nice to see that you two are—”

“Still together,” Rory finishes. “Partly thanks to you, right? I never got to thank you for that.” 

“You’re so welcome,” Francie calls over her shoulder, hustling back down the hallway as fast as she can. 

“What’d you do that for?” Paris asks, wiping her mouth. “I wanted to rub all my career laurels in her face.” 

“See, _now_ I’m getting jealous.”

Paris retreats to that stupid chaise lounge, officially over her Tristan-induced panic. “You know what’s weird?” she says. “I’m glad you thanked her. Her amateur attempt at extortion turned out to be a pretty good matchmaker.” 

“Seriously. Without Francie, who knows where I would’ve been at thirty-two? Probably still directionless and dating milquetoast men.”

“That certainly was your brand for a while.” 

“Come on,” Rory says, gesturing to the door. “Headmaster Charleston wanted to see us before we leave. I think you might’ve scared the ninth graders with your ‘go ahead and act on your gay thoughts’ speech.” 

“I was told to talk about what I learned at Chilton,” Paris sniffed, collecting her things. “Excuse me for being honest.” 

“Don’t forget your briefcase of lies,” Rory says. That nickname hadn’t gone over well at home, and it doesn’t go over well here.

“For the last time, if I want to keep up appearances for the sake of my career, then that’s my choice to—”

“You don’t need to cart around an empty briefcase to prove you’re big and successful now,” Rory reminds her. “Besides, you’ve got a trophy wife. Isn’t that proof enough?”

“Yeah,” Paris says, letting Rory help her up. “I guess it is.” 


End file.
